


Like a bell

by binds



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M, Gen, everything is beautiful and untouched by Drosselmeyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:46:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binds/pseuds/binds
Summary: He notices her almost immediately, halfway across the ballroom to his right.





	Like a bell

 

It’s a fundraiser for the city ballet, and a very glorified one at that.

This year’s is an anniversary spectacle of some sort, and it had ultimately been too inconvenient for him to avoid as the head of one of the oldest—and most generous—families in New York City. He’s too old to try and argue how intrinsically his life is tied to this company, although he’s personally never seen the point of going to any more of its ridiculous functions.

(He’s especially thought so after meeting Rue, who had felt like home since the moment they had been introduced.)

Siegfried drains the remainder of the champagne in his glass, idly surveys the room.

He notices her almost immediately, halfway across the ballroom to his right.

She’s young, probably in her early twenties, in formal waiter’s dress struggling to balance a silver tray of champagne flutes. Her situation is clearly made more precarious by her black pumps, which she is managing to stumble in quite amazingly despite their relatively low heel.

A blonde woman in a cerulean gown brushes past her quite forcefully, and the red-haired girl loses what little precious balance she has, stumbles too deeply to catch herself but determinedly refuses to loosen her grip on the tray of drinks. The liquid sloshes at each side of the glasses, threatening to spill over their edges.

Siegfried tenses himself to approach her to help, but someone moves and catches her by the waist, steadies the tray with his free hand.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered with dark hair and brown skin, and moments earlier had been speaking with a small group of older women nearby.

Siegfried recognizes him as one of the director’s favorites; Fakir Faris, a principal dancer known for his powerful, exacting style as much as his legendary surliness. Everyone close to the company has heard of his refusal to interact with the rest of the soloists and corps members, as though he considers them all to be beneath him.

Siegfried has an inkling that the root of Fakir’s refusal to be friendly isn’t some superiority complex—although he admittedly questions where this intuition comes from each time he catches a glimpse of the kid, all sharp edges and humorlessness.

Yet he can’t help but be amused. The dancer had undoubtedly been instructed to be on his best behavior, forced to endlessly mingle with and humor the big donors with their prying eyes and questions.

Fakir and the girl stare at each other for a long moment; they both look flushed and surprised. Fakir is obviously unsettled by his own actions, looking less like a suave knight in shining armor and more like a very inexperienced, very embarrassed schoolboy.

Inexplicably, the edges of the girl’s mouth turn up into something brilliant, and she says something that makes Fakir relax the tense line of his shoulders.

There’s always been something achingly familiar to Siegfried about girls with red hair, perhaps the result of some childhood friend he’d never quite forgotten about. But just the look of this one gives him goosebumps, and something about seeing these two together... He idly rubs at the sleeve of his black tuxedo.

“Sig,” Rue says imploringly, gently clasps her hand on his arm. He blinks, tears his eyes off the couple to his wife. She is as radiant as ever in some silky black number, poised in only the way a former prima ballerina can be. He’s sure that between the two of them, she’s far surpassing him in the art of aging beautifully.

“More champagne?” She asks, raising her eyebrows just so at the empty glass in his hand.

“I really shouldn’t,” He says, and pawns it off on the nearest waiter, a short man with kind eyes, before looking back to the pair. Rue turns her head to follow his gaze.

The girl is talking to Fakir, a picture of liveliness. The tray in her arms is all but forgotten as she gesticulates wildly. Fakir says nothing back, sporadically makes attempts to steady the tray, preventing a disastrous spill. But he looks to be at ease, is leaning into her, listening.

Rue turns back to Siegfried, eyebrows knit ever so slightly. “She—” She begins, slightly purses her lips. “We don’t know them, do we?”

“No,” he says thoughtfully, letting his gaze linger on them awhile longer. Fakir is still intent on the girl, so visibly taken in by her. Pockets of the surrounding crowd are talking in badly-hushed whispers about the display, not managing to conceal their topic of conversation in the least.

And oh, doesn’t this all feel unbearably nostalgic somehow?

Siegfried tangles his and Rue’s hands together. He thinks their promise of a half-hour appearance has been long fulfilled by now. “Want to get out of here?” He asks conspiratorially. She hums in agreement, and they both turn to leave, arm-in-arm in a grand French exit.


End file.
